You Don't Have To Be
by clair beaubien
Summary: This is a series of stories showing times when Sam needed Dean right next to him to be able to sleep. Chapter 14 is now up: Tag scene to Taxi Driver
1. You Don't Have To Be

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be." Dean said. He said so easily, like Sam could be sorry if he wanted to or not; either way didn't bother Dean.

"You don't have to stay with me."

"I'm fine."

Thursday night, after the memorial service for Jessica. The "prep school freshman" clothes Sam'd been loaned for the service sat folded on the table, waiting to be returned to their proper owner. Two uneaten dinners had been placed inside the tiny refrigerator. The bottle of make-you-sleep painkillers sat on the between-beds table next to a bottle of water, waiting for Sam to decide he wanted a dose.

Sam lay on his side on the far side of the far bed, facing the far wall, curled under the bedspread, wearing a pair of Dean's sweat pants, one of Dean's stretched out tees, and one of Dean's flannel shirts. As soon as word spread among his friends that he'd lost more than everything in the fire, there'd been a hasty but heartfelt collection of new clothes for him and by Monday night he'd been outfitted with jeans, shirts, socks and underwear, even sneakers. Even pajamas. But he wore the 'pajamas' Dean had given that first night, that night right after the fire, because it was a safe place to be, worn in and familiar, and when he felt the flannel he could feel Dean.

He'd been offered – they'd both been offered – rooms and beds at any number of houses of his friends, and his friends' mothers, but Sam only wanted Dean. Only Dean would understand. Only Dean wouldn't make him have to talk about it over and over again. He didn't 'tsk' like the University people did, didn't want Sam to comfort him like some of his friends did at the expense of his own grief. Dean was just Dean. That's all there was to it. Dean was just – everything right now.

Sam's eyes tingled and he pulled a tissue from the box that sat on the mattress next to his pillow and blew his nose. Again. He crumpled it and tossed it toward the wastebasket next to the bed but he'd long ago given up trying to actually make the basket. He coughed and sniffled and pulled the bedspread up over his shoulders again and shifted more than he had to just to feel the weight of his brother sitting next to him in the bed.

"You all right?" Dean asked. His voice was heavy and calm; there was no hysteria of grief, no burden of guilt. Just Dean checking on Sam.

"Yeah." Sam answered, his own voice choked with that grief and that guilt. Dean put the back of his hand against Sam's back and rubbed lightly back and forth. He kept doing that, whenever Sam coughed or sobbed or sighed, Dean touched him and held the touch for awhile, through the bedspread and flannel, until Sam relaxed into the half sleep of exhaustion. Again. Until some picture or memory or sense memory snapped him out of it. Again.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

Dean had the newspaper in his lap, looking for – something. He'd said what, but Sam couldn't remember. The sound of the pages turning were comforting to him, reminding him that Dean was here, right here, close by, close enough to touch. Sitting in the same bed Sam was lying in because Sam couldn't be alone tonight, even to the distance of a few feet. In answer to Sam's '_sit with me?_' he'd pulled a chair up close and put his feet up on the mattress to read the newspaper and that worked for a while, a little while. That was close enough. A little while.

Then it wasn't enough and Sam asked again, '_Will you sit with me?_' and Dean immediately abandoned the chair and got in the bed, pushing the bedspread out of the way and stretching his legs out in front of himself and that was finally enough. Sam relaxed with the weight and warmth of Dean just beside him, the repetitive touch that comforted him when his thoughts were threatening to run out of control.

All week Dean had been running interference for Sam, answering his phone and the countless calls of sympathy, standing right next to him while the Fire Marshall asked his necessary questions, politely moving visitors along when he could see Sam had had enough, politely turning them away at the door when he knew Sam had had enough just by waking up that morning. He'd even called that Monday morning to explain why Sam wouldn't be making his law school interview. He'd had the presence of mind to grab Sam's backpack on the way out of the burning apartment, and he'd been the one to go through it, separating out the clothes and things that could be cleaned of the smoke in the laundry from the ones that needed to be cleaned by hand. And then he'd cleaned them all. He'd even managed to snag a couple of pictures of Jess and Sam from the "In Memoriam" display at the service because he knew without asking or being told that Sam had lost all his pictures of her in the fire too.

Sam blew his nose again and actually made the wastebasket and shifted in the bed again. Dean's hand was there again, stroking his back, soothing him.

"You want me to turn the light off so you can get some rest?"

"No."

"I'll leave the bathroom light on."

Dean said it like he was still a little kid. He was twenty-two years old for crying out loud. He'd survived three years and a little more at college on his own. He didn't need the bathroom light on to sleep. He didn't need his brother sitting next to him to keep him calm. He didn't.

He did.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

Dean got out of the bed and set the paper on the table. He flicked on the bathroom light and shut the door almost completely over. Then he came back, shut off the lamp and got into the bed. Sam felt him slide down until he was lying next to him.

"I'm tired."

"Yeah." Sam agreed. Dean was probably just saying that. It was still early, maybe not even eight yet. He was just saying that. He had the other pillow under his head but he didn't have a blanket over him. He was probably still in his clothes.

"Get some rest now."

But Sam didn't want to find out that the price of falling asleep was Dean moving off of the bed.

"You don't have to stay with me."

"I'm fine."

He still said it so easily, like he wasn't finding Sam's misery too much to deal with. Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax, tried to let the exhaustion take him. He felt Dean's hand on his back.

"Just relax and get some rest."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

Then Dean shifted in the bed until his shoulder and arm were pressed against Sam's back and Sam relaxed into that strength and finally fell asleep.


	2. Safe With Dean

Sam couldn't remember a colder day in May. His breath rose into the dark sky as he put the first aide kit back into the trunk of the car. It was so cold, he wouldn't be surprised if it snowed during the night.

They were at a shack twenty miles from nowhere. Dean was inside, patched up, and all Sam had to do was lock up the car and drop himself onto the makeshift bed and hopefully get the first good night's sleep he'd had in days if not weeks. He was so tired, he thought if he stayed on his feet two minutes more he'd collapse where he stood.

When he went inside and laid down he didn't even feel the plank wood floor through the thin folded blankets that were serving as his bed. He made sure the covering blankets hadn't slipped off of Dean and pulled his own over his shoulders. The few candles that lit the room flickered in the wind that came through the nearly non-existent walls.

"Those candles better not blow over, the last thing we need is for this bundle of sticks to go up."

The worst that happened though was that the candles blew out, one by one, and the shack filled up with as much darkness as it was filled with cold.

"I hate the cold." Sam said. "God I hate the cold. Why can't we ever get jobs in California or - geesh, why can't we ever hunt something that doesn't have _claws_ for God's sake. How come no hot spring luxury spa ever gets haunted, hunh?"

A strong, cold wind shook the little building and bit through the thin blankets. Sam pulled the hood of his jacket up and tucked his hands under his arms.

"You always could sleep through anything." He griped to Dean. "You slept through the earthquake in Reno back in 2000. That one even bothered Dad. You didn't care. You sleep through anything."

Sam was tired, he was exhausted, he wanted to sleep. But the night and the cold and the dark made him feel small and alone and vulnerable.

"Hey Dean? Don't make fun of me for this but - can I sleep next to you? I'm freezing cold."

He wasn't that far away from Dean anyway, he shifted over a foot or so, and settled back down with his arm pressed up against Dean's. He pulled the blankets over both of them and relaxed against his brother. No matter what, no matter what happened, what _was_ happening, or how bad he felt, Sam always slept better when he could sleep right next to Dean. When Dean grumbled and moaned about it, Sam knew whatever was bothering him enough to need Dean wasn't that bad. When Dean didn't make any comment at all, Sam knew it was bad.

This was _really_ bad.

But still, Dean was there, solid and comforting. No matter what, Dean would always be a safe place for Sam.

When Sam opened his eyes again and it was daylight, it surprised him how fast and deep he'd fallen asleep. He stayed where he was until he heard the truck pull up outside and he got to his feet and met Bobby at the door.

"All right." Sam said. "I'm ready to bury Dean."

The end.


	3. Leaving Pontiac Behind

**I wasn't quite happy with this chapter so I tweaked it a little. **

SPN*SPN*SPN

_Sam followed Dean down the sidewalk. Dean was walking fast to get somewhere, Sam was walking fast to keep up. Out of nowhere a massive black dog jumped on Dean, knocking him down and clawing him to shreds and Sam couldn't move to save him. He tried and tried and tried to get there, but something had him trapped where he stood and if he could just move even just one arm he could do something, he could get there and –_

"Sam?"

The world came into sudden, startling focus and Sam found himself sitting in the front seat of the car. He caught his breath and looked around, surprised that he wasn't on that sidewalk anymore, surprised that Dean was behind the wheel, whole and sound and _alive_.

He was alive? He was alive. He was back. Not twenty four hours ago he'd appeared in Sam's doorway, warm and solid and _alive._ Now he was looking at Sam with concern.

"Dean?"

"You with me Sammy? You okay? D'you have a bad dream?"

"Yeah – uh yeah – uh  where are we?" He looked around, trying to get his bearings, trying to clear the images of his nightmares out of his head.

"Hardly an hour outta town. You winked out pretty fast."

"Oh – uh – sorry – I – uh –." Sam rubbed his eyes and tried to will himself into full wakefulness. "Were we talking?"

"No. Not about much. I didn't realize you were that tired. You should go back to sleep, you need it."

"Yeah – I just – yeah."

Sam folded his arm under his head at the window and closed his eyes. He should stay awake. Dean was here, Dean was alive and Sam had intended to spend this whole trip _with_ Dean, talking to him, staring at him, for a millisecond he'd even had the impulse to pull Dean's arm around his shoulders like he did when he was small and needed Dean right there with him. But Dean would never let him live that down now.

But maybe Dean wanted to talk. But Sam couldn't imagine about what. Dean said he didn't remember his time in hell, and Sam didn't want to remember his time without Dean, so that didn't leave much to talk about right now, did it? And Dean wasn't going to want him to drive for probably the next seventeen years. So Sam could go to sleep. There was nothing else to do, nothing else he needed to do, nothing else he could do. So he could go to sleep.

SPN SPN SPN

_Sam could hear Dean screaming from behind the door. He had to get there. He kicked the door open and ran in – to an empty room. He ran to the far door. He could hear Dean screaming from behind the door. He had to get there. He kicked the door open – and ran into an empty room. He could hear Dean screaming from behind the far door. He had to get there. He kicked it open and ._

"Sam?"

"_What_?" Sam gulped past the lump in his throat and around his pounding heart. There was no screaming here. No doors. Just the car and the road. And Dean. Safe and sound and squeezing Sam's shoulder so hard it hurt.

"Are you awake man? You were having another nightmare."

"I – what? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – I'm sorry."

"Nobody _plans _to have nightmares. You okay?"

"Yeah. Uh – yeah. Just – yeah." Sam turned to reach into the back seat and fished a bottle of water up. His mouth was dry and he wanted something to cover that his hands were shaking.

"Okay. You want something? A 'put you to sleep' painkiller or something?"

"They don't work. They don't stop the nightmares, they just keep me from waking up out of it."

Dean gave him a look, no doubt marking down in his mental inventory '_Okay, if Sam already tried that, it means he got nightmares while I was gone, and it means he got nightmares he couldn't wake up from._'

"Where are we?"

"Honestly, I've lost track. We've got another twelve or thirteen hours to get to Bobby's, you okay to make it? We can find a place to stop, let you get some real sleep."

"No I'm fine. I'm good. I just ." Sam took a swig of water to hide that he had no finish for that sentence. "I'll just keep trying."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He reached to set the bottle into the back again and saw Dean's jacket on the seat. "Can I borrow your coat?"

"You cold?" Dean asked and he moved his hand to the heat control button.

"No – for a pillow. Mine's in the trunk." Sam tried his '_see this is no big deal_' smile on Dean. "Maybe if I'm more comfortable I'll sleep through."

"Sure, go ahead." But Dean was still giving him the '_you're not okay and I know it_' look. Sam had forgotten that look. He'd forgotten a lot.

"Thanks."

He grabbed the jacket and folded it up and tucked it between himself and the window. It was more comfortable than the window, more comforting than his arm. Every time before over this past summer that he'd touched Dean's jacket, it'd been more to claw himself with what he'd lost.

Now it was just – finally – everything he had again. Dean was back. Dean was alive. Dean was safe. Sam put his hand on the jacket to push it into a better position. Then he did it again. Then he just left his hand on the leather. And then somehow his fingers had the sleeve in a death grip and he couldn't make them let go.

SPN*SPN*SPN

_Sam was cold and the shack was dark and Dean was there but it wasn't Dean just the stiff, ugly remains of what wasn't Dean anymore and Sam had to get to get to him because no matter what Dean was his big brother and the only place Sam ever felt safe was with Dean but the shack was dark and Dean was there and Sam was cold and he had to get there but the shack was there and Sam was dark and Dean was cold and - _

"Sam?"

He hadn't fallen asleep, he hadn't had another nightmare, he'd only been remembering. Why was Dean calling him? Then he felt it. Sam felt the tears rolling down his face, dripping onto the leather. Tears would stain the leather, he knew that from experience. He didn't answer Dean. Maybe if he pretended he was asleep, Dean would think he was asleep.

"Why don't you take something Sam? Sleep. If you have a nightmare, I'll wake you up."

Nope, Dean knew he wasn't asleep.

"No." His voice sounded funny and he coughed to clear it. "No, I'm fine. I just need ."

"Need what?"

"I need to remember _how _to sleep."

Sam kept his eyes closed. He felt the car pull over, onto one of those little gravel areas Dean always seemed to be able to find whenever he needed one. The engine cut off and Sam knew he had to look at Dean and answer his questions or they'd be here until Kingdom Come.

God, he'd missed that.

"Then let's get somewhere with a real bed and real pillows where you can stretch out and get some real sleep."

"That doesn't help. Nothing helps. Nothing ever helps."

"Yeah well, the smarter brother is back in town, so _something _is going to help." Dean smiled at him. "You remember what used to help when you were little."

"Dean – I'm too old and too big to sleep on your shoulder."

"Well don't say I didn't offer."

"Yeah, and if I did, I'd never hear the end of it." Sam pushed at the leather again, trying to keep from looking at Dean.

"Nope, not this time. One free pass. Cross my heart and  well, spit in a cat's eye. Or however it goes."

Sam took a breath, a deep breath that hurt. He couldn't tell Dean, didn't want to tell Dean, '_I close my eyes and you die_'. The one breath turned into two, turned into Sam trying not to break down because after everything he'd been through these past four months the one thing that wasn't going to make him cry was Dean sitting right next to him.

"Shoulder it is." Dean said then and put his hand on Sam's shoulder and Sam stiffened, expecting to be pulled closer. Dean would do that, pretending to be silly, but seriously meaning the offer.

"No Dean, don't." Sam tried to sound light hearted, but it came out more irritated. He didn't mean that. Dean was here, Dean was safe, Dean was touching him, _really_ touching him, it wasn't just imagination or delusion or hallucination. "Let me just - try. With your jacket. Okay?"

To make his point, Sam turned his face deeper into the jacket, squeezing his eyes shut, praying he wouldn't have another nightmare.

"All right." Dean started the car and Sam thought he was home free. And he was. Almost. "But Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam turned his head only as much as he needed to see Dean.

"I'm here. Remember that. In your dreams, in your nightmares, whatever they are - remember that. Whatever you're dreaming about, I'm here. _Here_ here." He indicated the car. "And I'm _there_." He pointed to Sam's head. "Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Okay." Sam turned back into the jacket. "Thanks."

Dean kept his hand on Sam's shoulder a little while longer and the feeling felt _real_. Dean was here, Dean was real, Dean was _alive. _ Sam could sleep now and not berate himself for getting any rest at all when Dean was suffering Godonlyknew what. He could rest and not have his brain on overdrive trying to think of something, anything, to save Dean. He didn't have to sit stiffly straight, eyes fixed on the road, desperate to get _there_, if only he ever knew where _there _was. He could sleep now because he finally knew: _there _was _here_. Beside him, with him, next to him, part of him. _There _was with Dean, and Sam was finally _there_.

A few miles down the road, Sam fell asleep. No memories, no nightmares. Just sleep. The sound of Dean singing along to the radio, the feel and smell of Dean's jacket under his head, and sleep.

When Sam woke up again, it was dark and they were pulled into a parking area off the interstate. In the glow of the street lights he could see that Dean was asleep, leaning against the driver's side door. He had Sam's hooded jacket bundled under his head, one of the sleeves gripped tight in his hand.

"I am _so_ glad we're out of Pontiac." Sam whispered. He put his head back down on Dean's jacket and went back to sleep.

The End.


	4. Goodnight Sammy

Dean's phone rang. He checked caller ID - and smiled.

"_Sammy_." It'd been two weeks since Sam left for college. This was his first phone call back.

"Hey Dean." Sam sounded young and far away. "You still talking to me?"

"Of course I am."

"I wasn't sure. I didn't know if maybe - um - so hey - what time is it there? It's not the middle of the night, is it?"

"Oh no. Middle of the afternoon."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"Well, 'cause it's after nine PM here. For it to be afternoon where you are, I think you'd have to be in South East Asia."

"Oh - well. You know those neon billboards. It's so bright it's like it's broad daylight."

"Okaaay. Um - you know, I know I maybe - I shoulda called before this - I just - I didn't know -."

"No Sammy. I knew you were gonna call. I know -." Well, he didn't want to say '_I know how you are. I know you need time_.' " - getting set up at college and classes and your dorm can be crazy."

"Yeah." Sam sounded like he knew Dean was giving him an out.

"So - you doin' okay? You gettin' enough to eat?"

"Yeah - oh yeah. There's an 'all you can eat' café here in the union, my plan pays for it. They got salad and pizza and cheeseburgers and chicken and desserts and ice cream and -."

Normally, Dean would've put the brakes on Sam's train ride of monologue, but it was good to hear him excited about _anything._

" - and I've been there so many times, the cashier knows my name."

"That must be nice."

"Actually, it's kind of creepy." Sam admitted, sounding half bothered, half amused. Dean could just picture the look on his face.

"So how've you been doing there Sammy? How's your dorm room?"

"Like a closet. I negotiated for a single so I wouldn't have a roommate. I think they musta found the smallest room on campus."

"Is the bed big enough for you?"

Dean heard Sam take a deep breath and let it out.

"No, but it's nothing I haven't had before. It's just -."

"What?

"I'm not used to waking up in the same room every day. I haven't been in a car in two weeks. I just - sometimes I want to drive in a car just so I can fall asleep."

"Are you having trouble sleeping?" Dean asked instantly.

"No." Sam answered just as instantly. "Well, a little. After wanting my own room for my whole life, turns out I can't fall asleep in a quiet room."

"You got a radio or TV you can leave on?"

"No. I was gonna go – y'know, when things calm down, when I get settled in - I was gonna go find a thrift store and buy something."

"We'll bring you something out."

Silence followed that statement.

"Sam?"

"Dad wouldn't come out here. You know he wouldn't. Don't worry about it."

"Sammy -."

"So - what're you working on?" Sam interrupted him. "Anything good? Where are you anyway?"

"Uh - Iowa I think. Idaho? What's that place that's got that place that we've been before?"

"Honestly Dean - I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you drinking? Are you in a bar?"

"No. No. I'm just - you know, we drive, we stop, we drive again. I don't pay attention."

"So - um - so - I guess Dad must not be there?"

"He went out a little while ago. There's a building he needed to check out. I don't know when to expect him back. You want me to have him call you?"

"Like he would."

"He would Sam. He would if he thought you'd answer."

Another silence followed that statement. Dean didn't break it.

"I guess I should go." Sam said. "I should start trying to get to sleep. I got class at eight."

"Always the early bird, hunh Sammy?"

"No. I don't know. Registration was almost over by the time I got here and could register. It's what I could get."

"Well next semester you'll be first in line to register. All afternoon classes."

"Yeah, that'll be nice. Then it won't matter what time I fall asleep."

"Are you in bed?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I'm laying in bed." Sam said. He sounded suspicious.

"All right, I'm gonna get a book -."

"Dean - you're not going to read me a bedtime story."

"Oh c'mon. It always used to work."

"Yeah - when I was _five_. Dean - really. It's no big deal."

"You can't go to class exhausted Sammy."

"It doesn't matter. I manage."

"You can't impress the girls if you're half asleep."

"I'm not _trying_ to impress any girls Dean."

"Sammy - come _on_. Freshman college girls? That's like every guy's fantasy. They're away from home, they're lonely, they got that wide-eyed-wonder look, free from Mom and Dad for the first time in their lives. I'm telling you Sammy, you got those sad eyes, that 'need to be taken care of' look. Dude you could have a _harem_ there without even trying. You could get your food cooked, your clothes washed, your homework done,_ your pillows fluffed_ if you know what I mean, every single day. You know if you don't do it for yourself - Sammy you should be doing it for me. Is it too much to ask to let me live a little bit vicariously? I got a vested interest in your happiness little brother. I'm only thinking of you, you know..."

Dean waited a minute, listening at his phone. As much as he wanted to talk to Sam until next week, he was happy to hear the soft, regular sounds of Sam's breathing. Asleep.

He shut off his phone and went to the window. In the distance, the lights of Stanford University glowed a pale yellow in the dusk sky. Dad was out there, checking that Sam was living in a secure building.

"Good night Sammy."

The End.


	5. Better When You Wake Up

"_'I ain't nothin' but tired…'_" Sam didn't know if it should bother him or not that Bruce Springsteen was playing in his head as he struggled to get out of Cold Oak. He was exhausted, his arm was dislocated, probably some ribs were broken, he thought maybe even his jaw might be broken. It didn't matter, nothing mattered except getting out of here and finding Dean and figuring all of this out. Jake was behind him, Dean was somewhere in front of him and Sam was going to find Dean if it was the last thing he did.

_'Sam? Saaaaam?'_

That was Dean. Dean was here. As Sam called back to him, everything fell away and he didn't feel the pain or the tiredness, or the rain or the cold. Dean was here and everything was fine now. Dean would take care of him; he'd patch him up and feed him and order him to get some sleep like he didn't know that was exactly what Sam planned to do anyway.

Dean was here. Sam was safe.

He heard a noise behind him, footsteps, but that wasn't Dean behind him. Dean was in front of him. It must be –

Pain like Sam had never experienced burst into his spine and along his arms and down his legs until suddenly he couldn't feel anything and he collapsed to his knees in the mud and the rain and the sound of Dean's anguished -

"_Nooo!"_

Jake. He'd left Jake behind. Jake and the knife.

He shouldn't have done that.

The exhaustion crashed back down on him, no pain, why wasn't there any pain? But the exhaustion filled his head and carried down his limbs and if Dean hadn't been there all at once, Sam would've gone down face first into the mud and darkness.

He was saying something, Dean was saying something, but Sam wasn't hearing him. All that mattered was that Dean was there and had Sam in his arms, so Sam could sleep, because he was safe now. He was safe because Dean was here.

Sam let his head rest on Dean's shoulder, and Dean was so warm and solid against him, the way he always was when Sam was little and needed his big brother. Dean always made everything all better. He always did. Sam didn't hear what Dean was saying now, but he remembered what Dean always said when he was little:

_'I promise everything will be better when you wake up.'_

And it always was.

So that's what Sam did now. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

It would be better when he woke up.

The End


	6. So Near and Yet

Fireworks inconsistently broke the darkness of the sky, coming from four or five corners of the horizon. Sam had buried Dean far enough away from everywhere that everywhere was visible from a distance. Happy Freaking Fourth of July.

He sat at the side of Dean's grave, cross legged, elbow on his knee, head in his hand. He wanted to throw up.

"So – um – I saw these at a gas station I stopped at yesterday. The really really long ones, and I thought – since I was coming to visit you anyway – I thought – anyway – maybe – you'd want to -."

Tears rolled down his face but he didn't wipe them away. He opened his backpack and took out a box of sparklers.

"You remember these? I can't even remember how long it's been since we had these. I remember the first time Dad bought 'em for us. I thought they were the coolest thing."

He struck a match and lit the first one. Silver sparks shot out in every direction, pricking his skin, burning slowly down the thin composite taper. He stuck the long metal tail into the ground over Dean's grave and used that sparkler to light the rest in turn, jamming them each into the ground. The relative light lit a small area around Sam, around the grave, and made the darkness beyond him that much deeper.

"So – um – I'm – I'm -." He couldn't say '_I'm doing okay'_ because that so wasn't true. "I'm still alive. I – uh – you know, my phone rang today and I just – you know I just thought – 'cause I couldn't make out this word in Dad's journal and when the phone rang I thought '_good – I can ask Dean if he knows this word'_. You know? I just – I thought it was you."

He sniffed and dragged his arm over his eyes to clear the tears and more fell. He was so exhausted and so angry and so sick to his stomach.

"I'm gonna fix this, Dean. I swear I'm gonna fix this. I don't care what it takes, what I have to do, this isn't going to be the end. You're not staying dead. I'm going to get you back." He wiped his face again and pushed his hair off his face and brought his knees up to wrap his arms around them.

"_I need you_ _Dean._ Who I'm becoming, _what_ I'm becoming – I don't think you'd like it. Sometimes, when I sit and think about it, sometimes it scares me that this is me without you. I feel like a train going downhill and if I don't get you back, I don't know what's gonna happen. So I'm getting you back and that's all there is to it."

The sparklers were burning down, the supporting metal wires glowing red and twisting down as the burnable material spent itself, spitting out the sparks, until one by one they burned out completely and Sam was sitting in darkness again.

"I miss you and I need you and I'm gonna get you back. Okay? So don't get too comfortable…" He hesitated, nearly tripped himself on what to say, where Dean might be. "…_there._ Okay? 'Cause I'm getting you back."

He sat there a little while longer, considering his options. The earlier heat of the day was giving way to a damp chill and he pulled his jacket on. The night would no doubt get colder before it got warmer but the fireworks in the sky were still going strong, and no motel room in the world would be as comforting to him as sleeping – well, as close to Dean as he could get right now.

"I'm gonna hang out here awhile, okay? I just – I want to be near you, okay?"

He pushed his backpack where he could use it as a pillow and still see the closest fireworks display. He tucked one hand into his pocket for warmth, and the other he laid on top of Dean's grave.

"I promise you Dean – whatever it takes, I'm gonna find that damn Trickster and he's gonna put everything back the way it was. I _will_ get you back."

He dug his fingers into the earth, holding on for comfort. He was asleep before the fireworks ended.

The End.


	7. Panic Room

Phantom Dean had been gone awhile. At least Sam assumed that that Dean had been an hallucination, like Mom and Alistair and his own teenaged self. It didn't matter though, did it, which Dean it was? Phantom or not, Dean really _did_ think Sam was a monster. Really _did_ think they weren't brothers. Really felt nothing for Sam.

Tears poured out the corners of Sam's eyes and he couldn't even raise his hands far enough to wipe them away. If Dean loved him, he wouldn't lock him away like this. He wouldn't handcuff and footcuff him to a bed. He wouldn't leave him alone to suffer everything he was suffering. Worse than being angry, worse than being disappointed, worse than hating Sam, Dean felt _nothing_ for him.

The porthole on the panic room door opened and Sam turned his face away. _Monster on display_ he thought. _See class? This is the monster in his natural habitat. Alone. Chained. Worthless except for what we can learn from him. If he dies, when he dies, we'll get another one. One less worthless. _

Adam should've lived, Sam should've died. Dean would be happy then. He wouldn't have Sam's sorry ass to worry about anymore. Adam had a life, he had a spine. He wouldn't have had to glue himself to Dean's side his whole life, desperate to belong, to fit in, desperate to matter to somebody, to Dean, until Dean couldn't stand to be anywhere near him anymore.

The porthole closed again and Sam nearly let out a sigh of relief, but then the door opened and he tensed, wondering what version of his own personal hell was coming in now.

"Sam?"

That was Dean. But - real Dean or Phantom Dean? But - did it matter? It had to be Phantom Dean though. Real Dean wouldn't be bothering with Sam, was he?

"I – uh - came to check on you."

That _sounded_ like the real Dean. The 'old' real Dean. Some of the 'new' Dean too. Concerned but hesitant. Sam didn't say anything, he kept his face turned away and when Dean appeared in his line of sight, he squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt Dean - _whichever_ Dean this was - touch the handcuffs, move them around on Sam's wrists and ankles. Double-checking that he couldn't get out of them probably.

"Are these hurting you?"

Sam couldn't help an aggravated huff, _'yeah, right, what d'you care?'_ But then he thought -

"_Physically_ I mean." Dean clarified, sounding a little pissed at himself for phrasing it the other way at first. Sam shook his head and risked opening his eyes a little.

- why would Dean care if the cuffs were hurting a _monster_?

"How 'bout some water? You want some water?"

Sam was thirsty, he nodded. Was this a trick? A different kind of hallucination? Dean sounded concerned and scared and pissed all at the same time and that was the _real_ Dean. That was the real Dean as far back as Sam could remember, whenever he got sick or hurt or wounded.

Well, a _pissed_ Dean, that Sam could understand right now. But why would Dean be concerned or scared about a monster? A monster he felt nothing for? This had to be another hallucination. Or a trick. That was it. The door to the room was still open, Bobby was probably right outside, waiting to see if Sam tried to escape. This was just a trick.

"One glass of water." Dean said, coming into Sam's line of sight again. He looked around the room, looking confused like he couldn't find something he expected to be there. "No bendy straws." He finally said. He sounded like he was apologizing. "Can you sit up?"

Sit up? Sam had sat up to talk to - be derided by - Phantom Dean. Had they really tied him down so that he could still sit up? Why would they do that? What was going on? Sam felt like he was getting more confused the less hallucinations he was having.

But he nodded and tried to sit up and nearly fell back again and there was an arm there, an arm and a shoulder and a body, and a voice -

"_All right, I gotcha_."

- that bolstered him as much or even more than the arm and shoulder and body behind him, supporting him.

"Here you go, small sips, okay?"

Dean held the glass and Sam took the small sips. The water felt real. It tasted real; lukewarm and a little metallic. If this was an hallucination of being taken care of, wouldn't the water be cold and taste good?

"That okay so far? You're not gonna hurl?"

Sam shook his head.

"Is that 'no' on the okay? Or 'no' on the hurling?"

Dean sounded real and a little hoarse actually. He sounded concerned and Sam still wasn't getting that part. Dean thought he was a monster. Why would he care about a monster?

"Not gonna hurl." Sam mumbled. And the arm around his back and the hand on his shoulder tightened a little.

"Okay, try a little more."

Dean tilted the glass but Sam didn't pay attention. He stared at the cuffs. There were strips of blanket wrapped around his wrists under the cuffs. His ankles too; even with his jeans and socks and boots, they'd added extra padding. He'd seen them before but it didn't hit him until just now - when Dean and Bobby tied him down, they'd gone out of their way to make sure _he didn't get hurt._ They'd even put the blanket over the bed railing where'd his head was, so he'd be as comfortable as possible.

_Who did that for a monster_?

"Dean?"

"C'mon Sammy, try a little more water for me, okay? On top of everything else, I don't want you dehydrated."

Sam took a few more sips, thinking.

Dean sounded tired, he sounded frustrated. But he sounded like _Dean,_ and for the first time since Dean and Bobby tricked him in here, Sam felt some hope. If this was still Dean, then there was still a chance. All his life, Sam had been able to get Dean to see things his way. All Sam had to do was remember the right combination of sad eyes and soft words, and make Dean feel that he was Sam's only help in the world.

He could do this. One step at a time.

"Dean? Let me go."

"Not yet."

"Please." Sam shook his manacled hands. "I don't need these anymore."

"No, not yet. Those stay on. C'mon. Get some rest." Dean stood up from the cot and eased Sam back onto his blanket pillow. "Do you, um, need to take care of any _business_ while I'm here?"

"No." God no. Tied down and needing Dean to help? _Thank God no._

"Okay." Dean set the glass back onto the table. "It's getting late, it's almost dark. Things seem quiet now. In the morning, if you haven't had another seizure, if you can eat something, we'll see about taking the cuffs off."

"Dean - _please._" Sad eyes, soft words. Once Sam was free, he could find Ruby, kill Lilith, _make Dean understand._

Dean stayed at the table long enough to pour some water from the pitcher onto his bandana. Some dripped through the fabric, down his hand, onto the table. He didn't answer Sam's entreaty.

"I'm fine Dean. I am. You can trust me. I promise."

Dean shook his head but still didn't answer. He used the damp bandana to wipe Sam's face, especially the tight, dry tear tracks. He wiped Sam's throat and then around the back of his neck. Just like he'd done countless times when Sam was growing up, just like he'd done just a couple of weeks ago when Sam was in the hospital getting his arms quilted back together. Just like he cared.

"Dean - please - let me outta here."

"I will Sam - the very _second_ I can."

Sam just kind of shook his head. He had to get Dean to understand. He had to get him to understand enough _now_ to get out of the panic room. Then he'd have to get Dean to understand enough _later _to fix this rift between them. He could do it; there'd never been anything so bad that Dean hadn't forgiven him for it. Never.

"Get some rest Sam. I'll check back on you later." Dean said and Sam looked away. He could do this, he could play this. Once Lilith was dead, Dean would understand. Sam just had to wait for his chance to get away and find Ruby.

With a sigh, Dean left the panic room, shut and locked the door. On the cot, Sam let out a sigh of his own. He just had to hold out until the morning, make nice and get Dean to see things his way. In the meantime -

He looked toward the door.

In the meantime, Dean was the problem, but he was also still Sam's brother. Right now, right at this minute, that was enough.

As the light faded overhead, Sam fell asleep.

the end.


	8. The Works

Well, time-traveling by "Angel Air" still throws my digestive track completely out of whack. Apparently it gives Sammy insomnia. Three nights we've been back and he hasn't slept a wink yet as far as I know.

That first night back, we were supposed to take turns sitting up with Cas, in case he needed anything. Only I never had a turn; Sam stayed awake with him all night. He didn't catch any Z's that next day either. He laid down but didn't fall asleep.

Cas left us late that afternoon, and I thought Sam would maybe sleep better once it was just us again. But he sat up at the table half the night with his computer open in front of him. And he spent the other half of the night sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, in the dark room.

I asked him what was going on, he blamed it on time-travel and said it'd pass. But - he was eating less, talking less - this would sound totally off the wall to any sane person, but I knew that something more than time-travel was going on.

Finally, tonight, we were unpacking into our latest motel. Windows and door got salted, weapons got checked, laundry got prioritized, flyers for local eateries got perused. Then, just as I was about to announce it was time to go get dinner, Sam pulled out his laptop and sat on the bed with it, back up against the headboard, computer on his knees, Ipod on the mattress next to him.

"Sammy - c'mon. Let's get some dinner. Whatever you're working on can wait."

"Nah, you go. I'm not hungry. I just want to stay here and work on this."

He plugged his Ipod into his computer, charging the batteries or whatever probably, and started some determined typing.

"Work on what? A job?"

"No. Just - nothing. No."

He looked upset. Something was going on.

"You sure you're OK?" I asked him, even though he couldn't be OK. Yeah, his eyes were so dark from exhaustion they were practically black, but he also had that look like somebody just stole his puppy. Maybe something else had gone on with meeting Mom and Dad.

"I'm fine." He answered without looking up at me. His voice had an edge to it like he was pissed and I was supposed to know what he was pissed about. I had no clue.

"C'mon, Sam. We're way past this game. You're not fine, so tell me what's going on and why."

And he looked up, and he almost told me the truth, but then something passed over his eyes and I knew what he said next wasn't going to be the entire truth.

"Dean, I'm fine. I'm tired. I'm tired of not being able to sleep. I just wanna - just - _rest._"

Even if it wasn't the _entire_ truth, there was truth there in it. He was exhausted and holding on dangerously close to the end of his rope. Maybe if I could get him to sleep, maybe I could eventually get him to open up about whatever else was bothering him.

"All right. I'm gonna go get us some dinner. Then you're going to take something to sleep because you can't go on like this anymore."

"Dean - I'm fi-."

I got a few looks of my own and the one I sent him right then stopped him in his tracks.

"Yeah. Okay. Yeah."

There was a good-looking diner just down the street, so out and back took me less than forty-five minutes. When I came back into the room, Sam had put his computer away and was sitting in bed with his Ipod ear pods on. I don't get Ipods. If I can't listen to music full blast so the whole world can hear it too, what point is there?

"Sam - dinner."

He made some noise that sounded like unwilling agreement and set aside his Ipod to come to the table.

"Thanks." He said as he sat down and I put his dinner in front of him, but he seemed to eat almost out of habit. He eyes stared just off the edge of his Styrofoam box and his mind seemed a million miles away.

Or maybe just thirty years.

"So - tomato rice soup?" He asked out of nowhere. I didn't know he'd heard that part of the conversation between me and Mom.

"Yeah. Uh - Mom used to make that for me."

"I never knew that. I mean - you never order it at a restaurant or anything. Never buy it at the store."

"Well - I don't know that I've ever seen it on a menu. And anyway, nothing would ever taste as good as hers."

"Yeah…"

We ate a little bit longer in silence. Of course meeting Mom and Dad back when they were practically kids was gonna work a number on Sammy. All he'd had of Mom all these years was an image built up from snatches and stories, one photograph, and the kind of reverence that builds up around a dead mother. Meeting her in the actual flesh was either going to destroy that vision or confirm it. Judging from Sam's mood, I guessed it was the former.

"I used to ask about her all the time." He said after awhile. It was an accusation. "I wanted to know everything about everything about her. You'd never talk about her. You never told me about the soup or that she'd sing to you or what her favorite song was or anything. I wanted to know stuff like that. I wanted to know about my Mom."

"Sam -." What could I say? He was right. "You know, Dad never liked talking about Mom. Or hearing her talked about. And after awhile you stopped asking…"

I felt like a jerk. I'd kept most of my memories quiet because I didn't want to flaunt everything I'd had that Sam never did. For the first time now, I could see how it could maybe look like I'd been trying to keep my memories of Mom all to myself Either way, he lost out.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

He nodded and went back to eating.

"Hey, Dean?" He asked without looking up.

"Yeah?"

"If you ever remember anything else about Mom, will you tell me?"

"Yeah, 'course I will."

So dinner ended and Sam got changed for bed. I dug around in my duffel for the P.M. aspirin bottle because he was going to sleep tonight even if I had to drug him unconscious. But he didn't lay down, he sat up against the headboard again and plugged in his ear pods.

"Maybe you should download a lullaby into that thing." I joked. I almost didn't hear his answer.

"_It's not working."_

Oh. God.

The pain slammed into my gut so hard it almost made me dizzy.

Tell me he didn't. Please God, tell me he isn't -

"Sam?" I walked over to his bed and snatched his Ipod.

"Dean - don't. C'mon -."

He made a grab to get it back but I ran my thumb over the dial and there it was.

_Hey Jude_.

Oh. God.

Sam heard me tell Mom how she would sing me to sleep with that song and he was so desperate to have some part of that experience that he'd downloaded the song to his Ipod and was trying to fall asleep to it.

His longing was so palpable, so painful, I could feel the ache. I couldn't say anything.

"No, Dean - I'll just - I'll take the pills. I'll go to sleep. A few aspirin and a few shots of whiskey will put me to sleep. It used to before. Just - don't worry about it."

He took his Ipod out of my hand and started to pull the ear pods out.

"It's not working because you're not doing it right." I finally managed to say. "You need the whole works, not just the song."

"What're you talking about?"

"Well, first -" I turned so I could wipe at my eyes without it being too obvious. "The room has to be dark."

I pulled the drapes shut, and turned off the light. Then I went to switch on the bathroom light and left the door closed over.

"Then you need to get under the blankets and punch up your pillows."

He gave me the Scrunched Face, but he did what I said. He pulled the blankets over his legs and made a passing attempt at fluffing his pillows.

"Now you need to lay down. Mind you, this is best accomplished after a nice warm bath with Mr. Bubbles, but we're kind of improvising tonight."

He slid down. I used to curl myself up into Mom's lap when she sang to me, but that was _not _going to happen with Sam and me.

"Okay, now, Turn toward the edge of the bed. Okay?"

He kept doing what I was telling him, and in a couple of movements, his back was to me. I sat in the bed beside him.

"You got an ear pod thing in? You got the song playing?"

He nodded.

"So - Mom would sit in bed next to me. And she'd -." Just once, I let my fingers brush through his hair, the way Mom would stroke my hair. "And then she'd -." And I put my hand on his back and lightly rubbed back and forth and up and down across his shoulders.

"It wasn't just the singing, Sammy. It was that she'd be right here with me. She'd sit with me and sing to me and stay with me until I fell back asleep again…"

I put a little cadence into my voice, wanting to lull him as much with my words as my actions.

So, yeah. It didn't take very long and Sam was finally out for the count. I let my hand brush through his hair one more time and stayed in bed beside him until I fell asleep too.

The End.


	9. After Madison

What do you do when there's nothing you _can _do?

Madison was behind us. Gone. Dead. For no more reason than that she crossed paths with the wrong person at the wrong time. She should've had a full, happy life in front of her and instead she had to die because some whacked out loser wanted her to suffer. And instead of risking ever hurting anyone ever again, she chose to end her suffering by ending her life.

And she chose to end her life by asking me to do it.

My stomach was up in my throat most of the drive from Madison's apartment. I wanted to throw up but it would've taken more energy than I had. I felt like I wasn't breathing. I wasn't out of breath but it didn't feel like I was breathing. My eyes burned and my head ached and my stomach lurched up and down my esophagus and I did everything I could to keep my mind blank. If I thought about Madison, if I thought about Jess, if I thought about _anything, _I was going to lose it and I didn't want to. If I gave into my grief, if I let it get even one tiny finger hold, I knew it would drown me and I couldn't risk that. I didn't want that. And Dean didn't need it.

Dean was driving faster than normal, so you can bet the scenery was flying by. He was doing it for me, I knew, driving - _flying _- me away from Madison, from what I'd had to do, from the momentary, tantalizing glimpse of normal I'd gotten too close to and had ripped out of my hands like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. Again. The day passed by outside the windows of the Impala and we just kept driving somewhere. I didn't know where and I couldn't remember the words to ask Dean where.

We didn't talk. Or if Dean ever talked, I never heard him. Once, when we stopped for gas, when Dean was out of the car and I was alone for a minute, I opened up the memory of Madison and how'd she'd looked at me and smiled and thanked me, _thanked me_, for killing her, and the breath I pulled in just as Dean was getting back into the car was a choking sob, and instead of saying anything he only reached over and wrapped his hand around my wrist for a minute, and brushed his thumb over the back of my hand and for his sake I pulled it together again and we got back on the road.

We didn't stop to eat. We stopped, somewhere, I didn't know where. I watched Dean get out of the car, and he stopped and bent down and asked if I needed to use the restroom. I had to think about it, and then I shook my head. He was back in the car almost before he left it seemed like and he set a bottle of water and an opened snack bag of pretzels next to me. But I didn't touch them.

We kept driving. _Dean_ kept driving, I kept '_passengering' _wondering how far we'd get before I finally dry-heaved all over myself. I tried to swallow it down, it was all just self-serving self-pity. I felt bad for Madison, for everything she'd lost and everything she'd never have. But I felt bad - and probably worse - for myself for the exact same reasons. And feeling that way for myself wasn't going to do her or me or anybody any good.

I turned to Dean once or twice or a few times. I wanted to say something to him but I couldn't think what and I couldn't remember how and each time Dean put his hand around my wrist for a minute or so and that would be enough until I needed to say something again and couldn't and then that last time he didn't take his hand off and then I didn't need to try and say anything to him again.

It wasn't anywhere near dark when we pulled into a motel. Dean let go of my wrist and patted my hand and when he slid out I slid over to sit where he'd been sitting and I put my hands on the steering wheel to feel the warmth of where his hand had been.

When he came back out he opened the door and waited and it wasn't until he gestured with his head that I should move over that I realized I was in his spot and I slid back to the other side of the car and watched Dean get back in and waited until he backed the car out of the spot and put it in drive again and then I pushed my hand closer to his side and he put his hand on my wrist and we drove what turned out to be the long way around the building to our room and when we got there and parked and had to get out, Dean didn't let go of my wrist, he tugged me out his side of the car and still didn't let go until we were at the trunk and had to get our bags out.

And when he wasn't touching me, I wasn't sure my heart was beating.

We got into the motel room. All I remember was that it was inside. And a lot of flat surfaces. Somewhere, far behind us, hours behind us, a lifetime behind us, Madison was dead and at peace. And behind and in front and coming in from all sides of me was more loss and failure and pain and regret. And my stomach in my throat was painful and throwing up was still beyond me and by the time I'd made it from the door to the far bed, Dean had brought in his duffel, and the weapons, and the water and pretzels, and he'd salted the room and checked the thermostat and turned on the light in the bathroom and I was still wondering how to get my backpack from my shoulder to my bed.

Then my backpack was on the bed and I was on my way down to sitting on the mattress next to it and then I was there and Dean was crouched in front of me untying my sneakers and pulling them off. He was saying something to me and I could hear him but I couldn't make out a single word. I think he didn't need any answers though because he kept talking and never gave me the '_why aren't you answering?_' look. He smiled at me and patted my leg and I realized then that I was barefoot and Dean was tugging me up again and guiding me to the bathroom.I couldn't think why he wanted me there. I didn't need to use the bathroom, I didn't think so. I hadn't eaten anything or had so much as a swallow of water in a day, over a day. Not that I remembered. But I let him guide me because I wanted to be where he was and he was about to be in the bathroom.

Then he pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the water and was talking to me again, pointing at me, gesturing at my clothes, and it finally cleared my brain that if I didn't get started taking a shower by myself, my big brother was going to give one to me.

But - if I took a shower, once I took a shower, the last trace of Madison would be gone, her perfume, her body, _her._I didn't want to take a shower. But I had to take a shower.

I started unbuttoning my shirt and had to nod when Dean tipped his head, wanting to know if I'd be okay on my own. I'd stay upright, I could promise that. Whether or not I'd be okay - I wasn't going to be okay.

Dean didn't leave, as I kept unbuttoning. My eyes were still burning and my head felt hollow and aching and if I could see Dean I could stay upright and alive. But not more than that.

When I was down to my underwear, Dean went back out into the room and I could still see him reflected in the mirror, he was digging in my backpack, getting my clean clothes probably, so I got all the way undressed and got into the shower and washed Madison off of me. Madison and Jess and what it felt like to make love with a woman like I still had every tomorrow left to me.

I started crying but I had to keep washing so I could be done and be back out with Dean but I couldn't stop crying.

Then I heard Dean call over the sound of the water that he was leaving my clean clothes on the sink for me and that he'd be just outside and I swallowed back my crying and got clean and got dry and got dressed and went back out into the room.

Dean had coffee and sandwiches and pretzels and water there on the table but all I could manage was a swallow of water and then the three aspirin he gave me with another swallow of water and then it was still daylight but he put his hands on my shoulders and walked me to my bed and then I was sitting down and then I was laying down and then Dean pulled the blankets up for me and sat on the edge of the mattress and ran his fingers through my wet hair and let his hand rest there.

And I started crying again.

There was nowhere to go, no way to be, nothing I could do but wrap up into myself as the pain ripped itself out of my chest and out of my lungs and down my face and out of my eyes. Madison and Jess and the Mom I never knew and the Dad I couldn't find and the life I'd never have and the brother I couldn't ever lose if I wanted to stay safe and sane and alive.

What do you do when there's nothing you _can_ do?

Dean whispered something, something like _'wait a minute'_ and he stood up and away from the bed, from me, and I couldn't open my eyes to see where he was going or make sure he was coming back. I couldn't stand it, he left me and I couldn't stand it and if he didn't come back, the pain would swallow me whole and shred me down and spit me back up in bloody, agonizing pieces and the pain would just never, ever stop.

I couldn't stop crying.

Then I felt the blankets behind me getting pushed closer to me. And the bed dipped behind me and then - and then Dean was there. I opened my eyes but couldn't see much past the tears and darkened room and I didn't need to see anything anyway. Dean was there. He laid down behind me and pulled close to me and wrapped his arm around me and put his hand around my wrist and even through the blanket I could feel him against my back, warm and solid and _Dean_.

And when I cried harder he pulled closer to me, whispering to me, somehow setting himself on the bed so that he was higher than me, so that his whispers and his breath breathed out over my head and for the first time in a long time, I felt the _little_ in 'little brother' and I held onto his arm and cried and he didn't let go and he didn't leave and he held me. He held me while I cried and he whispered to me and he whispered me through the pain. And when the pain started to give way to exhaustion, and crying gave way to needing to breathe, he held me and whispered the same one or two words over and over, slowing his cadence as I calmed down.

And when I had nothing left and I was quiet and breathing hard and everything still felt as black as it ever did, Dean took his hand off my wrist and lifted his arm from around me, but only long enough to reach somewhere, wherever, to bring the bottle of water around to me. It was already opened and all I had to do was push up on an elbow and gulp it all down and then Dean took it back and I laid back down and so did Dean and he put his arm around me again and held me.

The room was dark and I was quiet and I was safe. I relaxed back against Dean and fell asleep feeling his arm around me and his breath against my hair and his hand around my wrist.

The End.


	10. Farewell

So, it was done. Sam was going to say _yes. _

In a way, I could see the odd logic in it. Dad would say that if you had an opponent who was overconfident about something, use that overconfidence against them. Lucifer thought Sam saying 'yes' was a _good_ thing? He was in for the surprise of an eternity. Once Sam Winchester made up his mind to do something, it was _done_. He'd made up his mind to jump Lucifer back into his cage, and it was _going_ to happen.

On the other hand, even telling Sam I'd back him – _and I would_ – every instinct in me was still screaming at me to save him, protect him, step in front of him, hide him under a blanket on the back floor of the car, anything, _everything_, whatever it took to keep him safe.

Only – I knew that I couldn't. And I have never – _never_ – felt so useless. This was all on Sammy now and all I could do was promise him I wouldn't stop him. And that was so wrong, it made me sick.

We sat out on the car a while longer, and neither of us finished the beer we were holding. Bobby found us and said supper would be ready soon but Sam said he wasn't hungry and neither was I. After another little while, Sam stood up from the car and set his bottle on the lid of the cooler.

"I'm gonna walk around a little bit."

"Around where?" I asked him.

"Around here." He gestured to the salvage yard. "You know…just…"

_He was making his farewell tour. And all he had time for was walking around a junk and salvage yard._

"Okay." I set my bottle down too and stood beside him and I don't think I was imagining the gratitude I saw in his expression. "Lead the way."

We wandered around a couple of hours. We found places we used to hide, in cars that were junked before we born. We laughed at all the places we remembered Dad and Bobby having arguments, and we stood and honored the spot we'd accidentally come upon Dad crying, that day that would've been Mom's thirty-fifth birthday.

As we wandered and laughed and remembered, Sam kept glancing up at the sky. It'd been overcast for a couple of days now and I thought he was worried about rain. When one small clear spot finally opened in the sky and the setting sun shone through though, Sam stopped and stared at it and I wanted to cry as bad as Dad had cried all those years ago when I realized what might be going on, especially when the sigh Sam sighed when the clouds pulled in again told me I was right.

_It might be the last time he ever saw the sun shine again._

Nighttime swallowed up the yard pretty soon after that and we went back to the porch. When Sam sat down in the chair and didn't go inside, I sat in the chair next to him. He wasn't claustrophobic, but _I_ was feeling claustrophobic _for him_ right now. The last sunlight, the last fresh air, the last _everything_ was happening for him right now. I'd had a year to get used to the idea, to burn through all my _lasts_; Sam had twelve hours.

"Anything you want to do?" I asked him. Anything short of trashing the Impala I would do. And I might even do that if I thought it would save him. But this was Sammy, and '_wine, women and song'_ wasn't how he was going to end things.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly and shook his head.

"Just sit here."

Sit here and review his life and maybe try one last prayer, and just calm everything down inside of himself to prepare for the battle that was coming.

He didn't have to ask and I didn't have to say that I'd be sitting right here with him.

After awhile, he slouched down in the chair and put his head back and in the porch light I could see he had his eyes closed. Maybe he was sleeping. The last _sleep_ he'd ever get and he couldn't even get it in a bed, because the bed was inside and he'd be _inside_ forever too soon.

I looked up at the sky, though we'd pretty well had it established that it was a fool's job I was on right then.

"_Give him __**something**_." I silently demanded of the God I'd been told didn't give a rat's ass. "After all the faith Sam put in You, give him _something."_

The night got darker and the wind picked up. I didn't expect an answer. I didn't expect a miracle. I didn't expect anything but more of the same-old, same-old. And that's pretty much what it seemed like I was getting for my trouble. I slouched down in my chair and watched Sam for a little while, while I still could.

Something caught my eye though, and I looked up and out at the sky again.

Then I looked at it _again._

"Sammy – _c'mon_." I jostled his arm, and he mumbled awake.

"What? Dean? What is it?"

"C'mere." I stood up and tugged his arm. "Close your eyes and c'mere."

He grumbled his confusion but did what I asked. He stood up and closed his eyes and let me lead him down the front steps until we were in a clear spot.

"All right. _Open your eyes and look up_."

His gasp of surprise was all I needed to hear. Over and above us and around us and every which way, a billion stars beamed in the suddenly completely clear night sky. It was like somebody had turned all the lights on just for us.

"W_ow."_ He breathed out, catching my sleeve in his fingers and tugging on it like he was trying to get my attention. "Dean – _oh wow._"

He stood and stared and twisted around, calling out all the constellations he could find, holding my sleeve and making sure I looked where he was pointing, like he was a kid again and all this was so brand new for him.

Finally, when I got tired of craning my neck backwards to look at everything, I tugged Sam over to the car. We climbed up on the hood and laid back against the windshield and I listened while he spouted fun facts and trivia about stars. Like the fact that stars shine because of thermonuclear fusion going on inside of them, and most stars are over a billion years old, and the oldest is thirteen billion years old and stars twinkle because of turbulence in the earth's atmosphere.

I stayed there beside him and listened to him talk and asked him questions I knew the answers to just to _keep_ hearing him talk. After awhile though, he stopped talking and when I looked over, his eyes were closed and his head was tilted down and he was asleep. I slid myself over just enough to be touching my arm along his, and hearing his breathing and feeling his sleeve pressing against my hand, just before I fell asleep too, I think I might've said '_thank you'_.

The End.


	11. What Sam Needs

_Dragons _- dead_._ A couple of them anyway.

_Girls _- rescued. All the ones that were in the sewer.

_Gold _- tucked safely away in my duffel in the trunk.

_Little brother _- alive and well and sitting next to me in the car on our way back to South Dakota.

_Sword of Brunsvick _- uhhhh, never mind.

"Hey, wanna hit a movie somewhere?" I asked Sam.

"It's eleven o'clock in the morning." he pointed out, unnecessarily, and a little _disdainfully _if you ask me.

"Okay, wanna hit a _brunch _somewhere?" I asked instead. "You've turned into a lean, mean eating machine again, just like when you were growing up."

He laughed, he smiled, he admitted I was right.

"Actually, yeah. Getting something to eat would be good. Maybe a nice sit-down place? Real food."

"Real food? Really? You got it."

I'd been scoping out highway billboards and likely exits for miles now. We'd been too busy getting to Portland in the first place to stop long enough for more than gas and fast food, but now that we had some luxury of time, I wanted to take Sam someplace that had anything and everything he might possibly want, and pie and ice cream for dessert.

Two exits and twenty three miles later we pulled into a clean-looking, not-too-busy-looking, non-chain sit-down restaurant. With real tablecloths and everything. The nice hostess gave us a nice booth next to a nice window that overlooked the freeway. She took our coffee orders and left us menus.

"Been awhile since we've done this, hunh?" Sam asked, looking at me instead of at his menu.

"Too damn long." That came out when I didn't mean it to, because no matter how I meant it, never mind that it was too damn long because Sam had been in hell, _saving the world, _Sam would take personal blame for it.

Sure enough, he got his 'SadSammy' face on and started reading his menu like he had to memorize it.

"I can't remember the last time we had enough time to _sit_, much less sit in a real restaurant." I tried. When that got me no reaction, not even a glance over the menu, I asked, "What're you going to get? I can't decide between a late second breakfast or an early first lunch."

"Uhhh – I'm gonna get – umm -."

It didn't sound like he couldn't make up his mind because there was too many choices. He sounded distracted.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just – I'm fine. Just – tired. I guess."

"You want to stop somewhere, get a room and a bed? Anything you need, you need to tell me. Just tell me."

Sam gave me a look, and it was a look I did not like.

It was the look he gave me just before he walked away from me toward Stanford.

It was the look he gave me at the trunk of the car, after Jessica died.

It was the look he gave me just before I went to hell, and just before he went to hell.

Sad and brave and resolved and determined – and _so, so sorry_.

"What?" I asked him. I had to ask. So help me, if that Wall was giving way already, I was cancelling my order for Death's fruit basket. And if it was too late to cancel it, I was sure going to _spit_ in it. "Sam – what?"

Sam shook his head and studied his menu again.

"I'm just glad to be back home…" he said.

That was _so_ not his 'happy to be _anything'_ face.

"Sam?"

"I just – I'm just glad that I'm back with you."

That was some of it, but not all of it, but for now, I left it there.

"Me, too."

### ## ### ## ### ## ### ## ###

Gold – in Bobby's _not-for-creepy-stuff_ safe.

Creepy book made out of human skin – in Bobby's '_I keep the creepy stuff in __**this**__ safe_' safe. In perpetuity.

Little Brother – in bed in Bobby's spare room.

Sam knew. He found out. It had taken him less than twenty four hours to find out almost everything he could find out about Gramps and vamps and RoboSam. That had to be a record, even for Sammy.

It sure explained the look he'd given me at brunch, didn't it?

I stopped in the bedroom doorway. Sam was sitting up, reading a book. By rights, he should've been sound asleep; he hadn't slept on the drive back to Bobby's, dinner was hours over, he'd eaten enough and it was late enough – and his eyes were dark enough - to be considered way past his bedtime.

"Need anything?" I asked him.

And was not surprised when he answered,

"My computer?"

Once I knew that he knew, what he knew, what he still _didn't _know, I'd forbidden him to use his computer unless I was looking over his shoulder. I could easily imagine _allllll_ the research on RoboSam he could get done in an hour, much less overnight, if I wasn't there to stop him. So his laptop was currently in Bobby's not-for-creepy-stuff safe, next to the gold.

"That Wall's not going to stay up by _wishing_, you know."

Sam glared, he fumed, he admitted I was right.

"Yeah, I know."

"Need anything?" I asked again, and quickly added, "_Besides_ a free pass to go kicking at that Wall to settle every debt, score, and real or imagined affront you may or may not have inflicted on someone in your soulless state."

Well, he stared at me like I'd just emoted Hamlet's entire soliloquy from memory. But then -

"I'm just going to read for a while. I promise, I'll stay as far away from the Wall as I can."

I weighed his answer for a minute.

"And away from Bobby's safe." I told him.

"Yes, Dean."

I almost left it at that, but then I remembered -

"And away from Bobby's computer."

I grinned when I got the bitchface and whiny answer.

"_Yes, Dean."_

I was going to go back downstairs and leave him to it, but he looked at me a second or two longer before he went back to his book. He wanted something. He _needed _something. I thought about asking him again what he needed, like I hadn't asked it twice already, but this was Sammy, and even after a year and a half, I could read him as easy as he was reading that book in his hands.

He was stressed about RoboSam and everything that he'd done that he couldn't remember. He needed to remember what he'd done. He needed to fix what he'd done. But he couldn't fix any of it _right now_, so he needed –

He needed to know he could at least _try_ to fix whatever he could remember. He needed to stop _trying_ to remember, at least for tonight. He needed to put all that stress aside and relax and get some sleep.

And to do all that - he needed _me. _

Right here. Right now.

I yawned and stretched and dropped myself onto the other bed.

"Try not to read out loud to yourself too much, will you, Sammy? I need to sleep."

I put my arm across my eyes and listened to him grumble a few times. But then he put his book away, turned off the lamp, and fell asleep.

The End.


	12. Metal and Magnet

Explicated scene to episode 8.07.

It wasn't the nightmares, though God knew he still got them. Fire and blood and death and hell and hallucinations still scuttled through his brain and woke him up random nights, cold and shaking and trying to orient himself as fast as possible. But even though it was most often the soft breath from the near bed that oriented him in the middle of dark nights, that wasn't it.

It wasn't apology offered or forgiveness asked for, though God knew Winchester reconciliations were most often brokered with physical statements rather than verbal ones; a fresh cup of coffee provided unasked, a favorite song put on replay in the car, a knife sharpened, a button sewn on, fresh bandages set on the bathroom counter or good painkillers left out next to a glass of water – all needed, all unasked for, all appreciated, and all seen for what they really were. But that wasn't it.

It wasn't to keep an eye on Dean, though God knew he'd been doing that too these past couple of months. Sleeping light because Dean was sleeping lighter. A year in Purgatory was nothing compared to forty years in hell, but it was still a year in Purgatory, always hunting, always hunted, on alert for his life every second of every minute of every day spent there. And, whether Dean admitted it or not, he slept lighter and he slept less. And, whether Dean realized it or not, he wasn't the only one who did. But that wasn't it.

It wasn't habit, not really, though God knew it _was_ a habit, born out of long years of routine and preference. Any bed, any room, any arrangement of furniture or configuration of walls, when Sam slept, he most often slept near that particular edge of his bed, wherever or whatever his bed was on any given night in any given room, or house, or hovel. But that wasn't it.

It wasn't the ever-present happiness and relief that Dean was alive and nearby. It wasn't that the fights had been forgotten or the bad feelings miraculously erased. It wasn't some ubiquitous illness settling into his bones making him want Dean close enough at hand to rouse if necessary. It wasn't that.

No, when Sam went to bed that night, on the edge closest to Dean's bed, curled on his side, facing where Dean sat at the edge of his own bed, it wasn't habit or fear or concern or conciliation.

It was just what felt right.

The End.


	13. Sleeping in the Bat Cave

The Bat Cave was quiet; and that was an understatement. Once that outside door was closed and they were down in the center of it, no noise from outside came in at all.

Dean generally made up for the lack of noise. Singing, whistling, laughing, talking to Sam, rattling pots and pans in the kitchen. Sam could sit at the library table studying all day and listen to the sounds of Dean all around him.

But when Dean wasn't home – and Sam had started calling it that, at least to himself – when Dean wasn't home, the stillness was absolute.

Normally, quiet didn't bother Sam. Growing up in an ever expanding constellation of motel rooms, he was used to noises of all kinds. He would forever remember the night, he was six or seven maybe, a peculiar combination of sounds through the thin motel walls had woken him up and from the other bed, he heard Dad mutter to himself, '_sounds like they're beating a rug with a baby pig_,'

Sam'd felt bad for the baby pig for years until he finally realized what really had been going on in the next room that night.

Since they'd begun living here, at the bunker or Bat Cave or lair, one or two nights a week Dean would go out. Sometimes Sam went with him, and sometimes they each had an evening to themselves. Sam would make a cup of coffee and have a slice of whatever dessert Dean had most recently made. He'd read a book or surf the web, and then go to bed.

Since the Trials started though, Sam didn't like evenings to himself as much anymore. He still didn't go with Dean every single time because he knew Dean well enough to recognize when he needed a night to himself, but he didn't like it. With Dean's state of mind still not firmly on the same page as Sam's as far as surviving and living a long, happy life, Sam was never quite at ease while Dean was out of his sight.

He couldn't stand the thought of Dean being alone and in misery.

Tonight was one of those nights though, Dean'd gone out and Sam stayed home. He took a cup of coffee and a slice of the Irish Soda Bread that Dean had made for St. Patrick's Day into his room and sat stretched out on his bed and watched 'A Quiet Man' on his computer.

He waited up, but Dean didn't come home.

Finally, though his brain was still going, finally, Sam's body wore out. Since that first Trial, it was like his stamina was nil. He shut his computer off and set it aside, then switched off his bedside lamp.

And realized he still had to turn off the overhead light.

But he was too tired to get out of bed and walk _allllllllll_ the way to the doorway, so he stretched himself out fully on his bed.

Where, because his brain was _still_ going, he didn't fall asleep, despite how tired he was. He kept thinking of the trials and what the next two might be.

The first had been to kill a hell hound, which made sense in hindsight. If you're going to close the gates of hell, it seemed symbolically important to kill one of hell's guard dogs. So – what could the other two trials be? Who else guarded the gates of hell? There were so many myths from so many cultures, Sam knew that getting the right answer just by chance was impossible.

But his brain kept trying.

After a while, an hour maybe, Sam heard the outside door open and close and heard Dean's footsteps down the stairs and through the rooms and into the bedroom hallway. In a few more footsteps, he'd be at Sam's open bedroom door. Whenever Dean came back at night, if Sam was in bed, Dean would stop at his bedroom door for just a moment.

Sometimes he'd ask, "You awake?" which meant he wanted some company and Sam would get up and join Dean in whatever he wanted to do to fill an hour or two of early early morning.

Usually though, Dean would just stop in the doorway and not say anything, like he was just checking on Sam. And if Sam was awake in his dark room, he wouldn't say anything either, he'd let Dean have that moment, for whatever reason he needed it, before Dean headed off to his own bed.

Tonight though, Dean stopped in his doorway and asked,

"Y'okay?"

"Yeah, why?" Sam asked back, and Dean gestured over him.

"You're sleeping with the light on." He said and then his voice turned mock-paternal. "_Did somebody have a nightmare?"_

"_No_." Sam told him. He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "I just didn't want to get out of bed to turn it off."

"Hmmm…"

Dean put his hand on the switch, but before he shut the light off he asked again, "Y'okay?"

"Yeah. Tired but – yeah. You have a good time tonight?" Because he couldn't outright ask how Dean was doing.

"Won three hundred dollars in pool, so yeah, I had a good night." Dean switched the light off, before Sam could ask anything else. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah. Night."

Dean walked away and Sam tried to get more comfortable in his bed but still couldn't get his brain to shut down and let him go to sleep.

Then, from down the hallway, he heard the unmistakable opening riff to 'Smoke On the Water' – Dean was listening to some of his "kick-ass vinyl."

Which meant that – at least for right now – Dean was okay.

Sam listened to the song, and before 'Funky Claude' was done pulling kids out of the fire, he was asleep.

##


	14. Thinking

A/N: sorry I haven't been around. I'm still recovering from 2 weeks of the worst flu I've had in 8 years.

~SPN~ ~SPN~ ~SPN~

Sam Winchester face down is Sam Winchester exhausted. The '_hell and purgatory 2 days/1 night express tour'_ will do that to you. Ferrying a soul out of purgatory will do that to you. Closing the gates of hell Trial #2 will do that to you.

Being a Winchester will do that to you.

We're at a shack, halfway between Garth's boat and no Kevin, and the relative safety and sanity of the Bat Cave. I'd seen this place on a few of our treks to check up on Kevin and I decided to put it to good use now. Sam needs to rest and I need him to rest someplace quieter than an interstate motel.

So, he's face down on his sleeping bag, inside the salt circle, surrounded on every wall by every sigil and ward and protection I can think of. I'm just putting away the spray paint and flashlight and rolling out my own sleeping bag, right next to him.

I need the break, too. I've been driving non-stop for four days. Or nearly non-stop. I need to stop and breathe and get started not thinking about anything other than taking care of Sam. If I think about _anything_ else, it'll be – it'll just be – I just can't think about anything else.

So I concentrate on Sammy.

He's exhausted but not sleeping. Not yet. In the thin glow of the single fat candle near our heads, I can see him twitch and shift and breathe deep and not settle.

"Sam, y'okay?"

"Cold. It's cold here."

Yeah, it's cold. We hit one of those 'clear sky, plummeting thermometer' early spring nights. Not colder than anything we've survived before, but even though Sam's core temperature has always been something approaching a human blast furnace, all that 'hacking up his lungs' blood loss is taking its toll.

"All right, here."

I push my sleeping bag up against his and unfurl my blanket so it's covering both of us when I lay down next to him.

"…thanks…" He mumbles and settles and sleeps. He'll sleep sound until morning.

That's all I let myself think about.

##


End file.
